


Redemption or lack thereof

by Scorpiwriting



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, There's some of the other students as well here and there, about his own feelings and about things he should or should not do, and Lebrassoir's mental conflict a lot of it, fair warning is that there IS a bit of violence, in one of the works there's even characters from the other Houses, nothing major but like bruises and stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scorpiwriting/pseuds/Scorpiwriting
Summary: I have written a considerable lot about Archombadin and Lebrassoir, mostly because I sincerely loved the Scholasticate quests and how complicated their relationship was, so instead of just flooding the Archive, I will be putting up what I wrote in a single collection, a bit at a time.Stories of every day life, Halonic guilt, bad anger managment and...Possible redemption. All under the everlasting gaze of Halone.





	1. How very dare they?

**Author's Note:**

> Being accused of kidnapping someone is not something you'd expect to happen, but when you're the heir of one of Ishgard's 4 houses, it's straight up terrible for a number of reasons. Archombadin is rightfully angry and Lebrassoir can only stare.
> 
> \---
> 
> As usual, English is not my first language, so I apologize for any typo or odd wording that I might've used without quite realizing it. Also this one's a bit old. And short.

“What do they understand? Mh? What do they KNOW?!” Archombadin was in a foul mood and that was putting it lightly- Nothing that Lebrassoir wasn’t used to, but for some reason it felt far more explosive than the usual, be it for one reason or another (Reasons he knew all too well, of course, but that he wouldn't bring up. He still cared that much about his own well being.). He wondered if that inclination towards anger was a trait that ran in the Dzemael family, or if the young noble was just particularly short tempered… Either of the options seemed feasible enough, especially considering the situation they were currently in. 

“How DARE they!” The book that was slammed right in front of his face made Lebrassoir flinch visibly, his monocle almost falling off his nose in the process, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape: what was he even supposed to say? Confirm Archombadin’s anger? Perhaps reassure him that nothing wrong would befall him? It would be such a humongous lie that the thought alone made the young man sigh, which in turn made the Dzemael snarl (how very unbecoming), this time slamming one hand on the desk while keeping the other on his hip. 

Of course Lebrassoir felt under scrutiny, it was almost impossible not to feel under pressure when he was being stared at in such a fashion. “What was that sigh for, mh? You think me in the wrong? Do you?” At every question asked, Archombadin leaned closer, to the point that his face was but a few ilms away from that of his friend. “I-I, uh, of course not! I’d never dare go aga- I mean, I think you are absolutely right. T-They shouldn’t have dared cross you like they did, such…” The scholar looked down, suddenly unable to sustain the eye contact. “… Such low born peasants.”

It was ironic to pronounce those words, considering he himself was one of those peasants, but if that was the only way to calm Archombadin down, then he’d say them. Over and over, until he himself would become numb to it- If that was even possible. “… Indeed.” Much to his relief, the young lord's voice sounded calmer already- Yet he hadn’t moved back a step, still towering over Lebrassoir’s sitting form. Which was enough for the latter to look up, his lips trembling a little because of the nervousness. What did he want now? Why was he still there? “You always know what to say to make me feel better, don’t you?” Lebrassoir was so intent on staring at the Dzemael’s face that he didn’t even notice the hand that was suddenly keeping his chin up. There was much that he could've said as a counter to that statement, but his mind was absolutely blank, the only thing it could register was the sheer closure and how that made him feel- But HOW did that make hin feel, exactly?

There was apparently no answer to be given there, nor physical time to do actually that, as Archombadin immediately lowered his head to press his lips against those of his ever so faithful friend, making him stiffen visibly- Oh, if only the young lord knew of the turmoil he had just stirred inside of the dark haired scholar’s mind, hundreds of different thoughts busying his head. The will to bite down on those lips, the will to shove Archombadin away and hope that he would land on his back, allowing him to wrap his hands around his neck and choke that godsdamned high born bastard. The will to return that kiss, because it was the single most affectionate gesture he had felt in years, the will to risk and wrap an arm around the lord’s neck, assuring that he wouldn’t move, assuring that he’d stay there. Was that pathetic? Perhaps it was, but it was none of his concern, not when for once he felt good.

Nothing happened in the end, as Lebrassoir was so busy thinking that it gave Archombadin all the time to pull back and arch an eyebrow at his friend, who was still unmoving, staring in front of him. “… Say, am I that bad of a kisser? I never had anyone complain before…” Which begged the question: just how many people had he kissed, exactly? Not that he should care, for it was, as usual, none of his business, but at the same time it was something he immediately found himself wondering about- At least for a few moments. After those were gone, the scholar blinked, his right hand blindly touching about the desk as if he was looking for something, only to turn around a second later in order not to face the lord. “O-of course not, don’t be silly, my lord. I-I was just taken aback, that's all.” He supposed (hoped?) that Archombadin would let him be after that- And he did, but before going away, the lord still took a second to affectionately caress his friend’s head.

Lebrassoir couldn’t concentrate much after that, unsurprisingly so.


	2. By Her Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Saturnois' speech leaves Lebrassoir a tad shaken and when Archombadin asks him about it- Well, it is not what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should say that in this chapter Archombadin gets a bit handsy? I should? Yeah, I should. 
> 
> Again, I apologise beforehand for typos and odd wording, English is still complicated, ok? /sob

“And may her Grace and her Power grant us safety from the ever so present wrongdoings and sins that permeate our society so. That our lives may be free of the rotting horrors of heresy and desires that are not to be welcomed in the life of a proper man, or woman, of Ishgard.”

Father Saturnois had just finished his morning speech, ever so keen on letting every student know that just like every day, Halone’s everlasting and judgemental stare was on them. While people like Crammevoix could easily brush such an ominous speech and move on with their lives, some couldn’t. One didn’t have to know Theomocent to see that those words had somewhat left him scared, as if someone like hin had anything to worry about- Leigh was ready to swear that there was no soul as pure as that of the young Elezen, but many would just see that as heavy bias… And they wouldn’t be wrong.

In the midst of the scholars slowly leaving the church, Lebrassoir kept his head low, hoping no one would notice him, hoping that for once everyone did the usual- After all, not many took interest in the Dzemael lackey, but he so wished such desire wouldn’t rise in anyone on that very specific day. During the speech, the Elezen could almost swear the priest’s eyes stopped on him ever so often, as if that whole warning was for him and no one else. The idea alone was enough to make the young man shiver: he was very much aware that his life was all but free of sin, though now it felt far heavier on his shoulders, on his heart.

He could feel his chest tightening and only when he turned the corner to start walking up the stairs Lebrassoir noticed he had absolutely stopped breathing, as if that would make him less likely to be talked to. Foolish. Terribly foolish and quite dangerous on top of it. Just as he was about to open the door to his shared room, a very familiar, looming presence made itself known right behind him. “… It is quite unlike you to skip the morning speech, Archombadin…” Whenever he was talking to the Dzemael, his voice somehow got softer, as if he feared that keeping it too high would somehow irritate the considerably taller scholar- A fear that didn’t feel too misplaced, sometimes.

“… You know I wouldn’t have missed it by my own accord.” His voice, like usual, was terribly cold, refined. Sturdy, even. Albeit that made no sense, to Lebrassoir it did. “Something kept you, ser?” The scholar sounded surprised, as he was in charge of keeping track of his lord’s schedule and he was absolutely certain that nothing had been organized for that morning. Out of habit, he even reached inside his bag to take his diary out of it, only for the Dzemael to scoff and place a hand on the notebook. “None that should be written on that diary of yours. It was an unexpected… Happening.”

It wasn’t like Archombadin to keep silent on details, but Lebrassoir wouldn’t dare pry, oh no. It was beyond him. Above him. Out of reach. It was none of his business, evidently. “I expect you to offer me a complete resume… It will be quite a good way to start the day, yes?” The idea seemingly amused the lord, for reasons his servant couldn’t quite understand, but as long as he was in a good mood, it meant nothing bad would happen… Or so he hoped. A tiny, warmongering voice in his head reminded him that the young ser could be extremely volatile, and sometimes his hands flied faster than words.

With a shiver, Lebrassoir entered their room, trying to stay positive: why bandage your head before you even got hurt?

—  
Unexpected.

Or maybe not completely.

New, without a doubt.

Archombadin really wanted to hear what Father Saturnois had to say, but he also wished to see just how much of it Lebrassoir took as the truth. 

“Desires not welcomed…” The lord’s voice was uncomfortably close, just as much as his breath was, tickling the back of his neck in a way he didn’t even imagine could be pleasing. It was in moments quite like this one that the scholar’s resolve wavered, when his anger and cry for vengeance took a dive for the darkness, silencing themselves… For the time being. “What do you think he was referring to?” He sounded sincerely curious, oddly enough. A hint of honest wonder in his voice almost made the shorter Elezen smile to himself. 

“Desires to… To follow the heretic’s cause…?” There definitely was something unbelievably wrong, but also sincerely right in having Archombadin’s gloveless hand on his stomach- Skin against skin was such a bliss, such a rarity, he couldn’t even remember when his tunic had ended up so tousled and half dragged up, so concentrated he was on basking in the unexpected and… Gentle warmth. Gentle. Not an adjective he’d easily use when describing the Dzemael’s heir, but in these moments, it sort of fit. “Couldn’t it be this sort of desires?” Such a low voice, right into his ear- That was definitely wrong, in some book, in some prayer, in some way.

Lebrassoir inhaled slowly, but that only went straight against the original intent, as hearing him sigh, Archombadin merely pressed himself closer. “I didn’t hear your answer.” As to emphasize his words or simply convince his servant to be quicker with his reasoning, the young Dzemael moved his free hand, the one that was not comfortably laying on the other student’s stomach, gingerly wrapping it around his neck- Not pressing, not closing down. Rather slowly using his fingers to massage the scholar’s surprisingly tense muscles. “Is this wrong, Lebrassoir? What I am doing? What you want me to do…?”

It was rather embarrassing to be so easily read and a snarling voice in his head, the one that should’ve been silent, reminded him how disgusting it was to be so weak. But how could it be? Not to mention that Archombadin- His voice. That question. Was he sincerely worried? Or was he just trying to trick him? “… This…” No, he wouldn’t. “I don’t-” The young lord was not cruel. Just mislead. “This is not wrong.” He tried to sound certain, to sound absolutely adamant.  
The light humming behind his head told him Archombadin liked his answer. “This is not wrong.” He repeated.

Of course.

How could it ever be, when it felt so right?


	3. A problematic knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you strive to be perfect, you tend to notice how many little things make up that very perfection you seek and if you're not in the right mindset, they can only make you double as frustrated as you'd like to admit.  
> Tying a cravat was never easy, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much to say about this, if not that it was made to be light hearted when compared to the rest of these little writings.  
> Also hi I am a sucker for these tiny, intimate things. Also yes I am like 100% certain they had shared bedrooms, fight me(?).  
> Warning: Really Short, basically a drabble.

“Halone preserve, why must it be this bloody complicated?!”

Archombadin scoffed, undoing the poorly made knot that was holding up his rather scrambled looking tie- It was the third time he attempted doing it himself, for the simple desire not to disturb Lebrassoir who was busy with his own morning routine (had he not witnessed it himself, he would’ve never taken his friend for the sort of person who took that much care of his hair) and also because it sort of stung that he had never properly learned how to fix his tie with his own hands- Then again, being a lord, he never NEEDED to learn and that was that. 

He had to bite down on his lower lip in order not to groan in frustration, holding tight onto his own pride as his fingers once again fumbled with the two ends of the tie, which, in his honest opinion, had a mind of their own and purposefully slipped out of his hold. Continuously. Frustrating. Infuriating.

“Are you… Ok, ser?” Archombadin could swear he almost stumbled over his own feet out of the sheer scare he got out his friend suddenly appearing out of nowhere- Was he honestly so concentrated on his hands that he did not hear him get out of the bathroom? Embarrassing, really. “It… It is this godsdamned tie! It feels like it- Escapes me!” He was holding the fabric so hard it was almost certainly starting to crumple.

Lebrassoir looked moderately surprised, to the point of even chuckling lightly before placing his own hands on Archombadin’s, the simple touch being enough to make the lord’s hold loosen up his hold and let the scholar take the two ends of the tie in his own hands. “You see, my lord, it is less of an hassle than it looks like.” Looking at him, one could easily see how simple it was for him to tie it up, crossing the two ends, tying them together.

Archombadin could’ve used the silent lesson in tie etiquette, but despite his actual interest in the matter, he found himself staring at Lebrassoir’s face instead. Unbecoming, a voice in his head reminded him, but there was hardly anything he could’ve done about it- His eyes were simple drawn to his face. His eyes. His lips. So terribly close, yet so far, he felt. He could just lean over and claim them, but would that be right? Would that be something his friend wanted?

“And here. Done.” Lebrassoir observed his work with a hint of satisfaction in his eyes, a smile ready to greet his lord’s face once again. “Shall we head for classes?” And far away again.  
“Classes, of course. We better head out.”

That matter would have to wait. Perhaps after lessons.


	4. Redeeming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What man is truly worthy of redemption? The man that doesn't realize the pain he causes or the man that forgives?  
> Archombadin never really had to face the consequences of his actions, up until then- And they sting.  
> Hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this shows a bit more of that clearly not-quite-healthy part of their relationship, what with Archombadin being canonically pretty damn violent. And Lebrassoir /seemingly/ letting all of that pass without a blink of an eye- I say seemingly because most of us know what was actually up. So, I guess, beware, mentions of violence and less than healthy acceptance of said violence?  
> Also, I evidently enjoy suffering.

The Dzemael were not famous for their tolerance, as in most of the cases they never wished to deal with anyone that was below them in status and importance.

None of the count’s sons shined for compassion, all of them reflecting the teachings they received, loyal to a fault to the family’s honour. 

Lebrassoir knew that much. He was not a fool and if he was, he certainly didn’t realize it until it was too late- Archombadin’s anger was explosive, often uncontrolled and it would trash everything around him… And most of the time, he was the only person around. In a way, he was glad that was the case, as it would mean no one would actively know of this part of the young Lord, but it would also mean he had no one but himself. He had to treat his own wounds, his own bruises away from the world and come up with ways to hide the most sizeable ones, which, luckily, usually covered his chest. 

Sitting alone in his room, the servant winced when taking off his shirt, his arm and shoulder aching far too much even when doing something as simple as undressing. His skin was unfortunately pale and the simplest of blows would cause it redden, but Archombadin’s fists, driven by frustration and anger, were anything but simple. The whole Ulaa ordeal was trying the lord’s nerves more than he thought it would and at the receiving end of such nerve wracking tension, there was him. Loyal Lebrassoir, low family Lebrassoir. Fool of the fools, standing unmoving in front of the storm and never crying over the results.

Admittedly, the pain was enough to make him feel a certain familiar sting in his eyes. Oh, he wouldn’t cry. His pride was not bruised enough for him to that. Slowly, he rose to his feet, making sure to keep his arm steady along his side, making sure not to bump against any furniture as he made his way towards the cabinet that held all sort of curative ointments, a favour from House Dzemael, who wanted to make sure their precious son would never be without proper care. Lebrassoir grimaced, but still took a couple bottles out of the shelves before sitting back on the bed, sighing at the insisting, pulsing pain in his shoulder.

Just how hard did Archombadin hit, this time? Was he honestly that upset over being accused as he had been? Of course he was, his pride and the honour of the family was being put on the line- And whose fault was that?

Lebrassoir inhales sharply, putting a surprising amount of effort in trying to open the bottle with a single hand, but it was to no avail- He cursed himself for having closed that bottle so tightly the last time he had used it. 

So concentrated he was on his apparently desperate attempts, he couldn’t hear the door open behind his back. “… Fury take me.” The voice made the servant freeze onto the spot. What was Archombadin doing there? Usually, after pouring all of his anger onto his ever so loyal lapdog, the lord spent at least an hour fuming, away from the Scholasticate.

It was embarrassing enough to be found half undressed, but in this situation, it also felt like being defenceless in front of a lion. He sincerely hoped the young lord wasn’t there to continue with his assault- Because once again, he wouldn’t have the strength to fight back. He would never dare hurt him. 

Not when he was already doing so, subtly. In a way no one could see.

“… Did I-” Archombadin swallowed down, slowly raising his hand to loosely point at Lebrassoir’s shoulder. “Did I do that?” That was when the realization struck Lebrassoir: he had been so good at hiding, that his lord had never seen the results of his poor anger management. He had never seen the bruises crawling along the servant’s shoulder and arm, never saw the dark spots covering his chest- He never had to see the consequences, thus they didn’t exist. But now he was faced with them, forced to witness the destruction he had left in his wake, the pain he had caused. 

Perhaps that was why Lebrassoir didn’t have to answer. He merely looked up at his lord, not a single sparkle of life in his eyes- If he didn’t wish to cry before, now he absolutely forbade himself to do it. He saw the young man walk towards him and he instinctively tensed up, fearing for another unexpected bout of anger- Which never really came. Instead, Archombadin sat next to his servant- No, to his friend and observed up close the results of his anger. His hands shook as he dared take the scholar’s forearm to gently pull it closer to him, as to inspect the bruises closer. 

Lebrassoir didn’t expect Archombadin to be so touched, so… Terrified by his own actions. “I did that.” His voice was barely a whisper. His eyes were wide and the hold on the scholar’s arm was so loose, he couldn’t believe that was the same lord de Dzemael that covered his right side in bruises. He didn’t expect anything more than that, he actually imagined that after that he would’ve ran away, unable to come to terms with what he had done… Instead, Archombadin decided to surprise him once more by wrapping his free arm behind his back and gently dragging him onto his legs. 

It was new. Unexpected. And as such, Lebrassoir didn’t refuse it, didn’t move away- On the contrary, he let himself relax even, sitting onto his lords legs. Unusual. But Archombadin had the expression of a man that had seen the Fury’s halls and had been denied entrance. Slowly, he saw the young lord’s forehead inch closer to his chest, until it was actually laying on it. Considering the difference in height, the Dzemael was considerably hunched forward, as if that gesture alone was a way to ask for forgiveness.   
The scholar was so tempted to raise his healthy arm to gently place it on the back on his lord’s head, maybe massage his neck, soothe him somehow- As if he was the one needing soothing. That was how he was. Putting Archombadin first. And to hell with his pride. It wasn’t healthy, it wasn’t right. But he couldn’t help it. It would be the last time, anyway- If Saturnois’ plans would come to fruition, he wouldn’t have to suffer anything like this ever again. The thought was surprisingly not a comforting one and he did not understand why.

Archombadin had fallen silent for those brief moments, the lord’s breath against his bare chest made Lebrassoir shiver a bit, which in turn made the other student look up at him.   
The scholar felt his friend’s eyes on his face, but he simply couldn’t look back at him. He felt embarrassed. Open. Defenceless. Perhaps understanding that, the Dzemael turned his attention towards the purple bruises on the shoulder right in front of him- Just looking at them was enough to tell they were painful. 

That was when Lebrassoir felt it. A soft, somewhat warm touch on his aching shoulder- Archombadin’s head was right next to his own, so he couldn’t turn it around, but there was no need to do so. “… Are you perchance kissing them better, my lord?” He hadn’t meant to be so sarcastic, it was a real danger, as Archombadin could’ve easily taken offense- But he didn’t. Instead, he simply kept on trailing kisses along the bruises, following them down the arm, gently helping Lebrassoir raise it up. It hurt, as he imagined, but that gesture, so surprisingly gentle, somehow helped ease his mind. 

Each kiss was an apology. One that wouldn’t heal his wounds, one that wouldn’t make up for the horror that such violence was. But the way the hand on his back gripped his pooled coat and shirt, the way Archombadin accepted him laying his head against his own- He was not a strictly bad person. He could be a good person. 

Was it too late for him to be better? That much was what Lebrassoir wondered as the lord looked back up at him. There was no hatred in Archombadin’s eyes, there was… Something else. Something warm, in there. Perhaps that was what drove the scholar to place his lips against the lord’s brow.

A silent gesture. 

Archombadin’s other arm joining the one that was already behind Lebrassoir’s back. 

It was a moment still in time. 

Perhaps there was still a chance for Archombadin to change.

But it was too late.


	5. The 4 Houses Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archombadin is NOT a fan of social gatherings, especially when they force him to gaze upon disgusting things such as people being cute. Absolutely abhorrent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Archombadin is a bitter noodle man, Francel is happy and Quimperain is savage. This one's a bit more light-hearted than usual :D  
> You know the usual stuff, English eludes me, so if you see any typos or odd wording, please let me know!

“Remind me again why we agreed to come.”  
“To please your father, ser…”  
“So that he wouldn’t spend the next family dinner complaining about me not taking part in social gatherings. Yes.”  
“You are doing well so far, my lord.”

Archombadin’s attention was finally drawn back to his servant, who was holding two glasses of champagne, a small, terribly frail smile adorning his lips- The young Dzemael briefly wondered why he looked so unsure, but it was a short lived doubt: he would have time later to question (or not) about that- For now, his attention would almost immediately go back to whatever was happening all around the room.

Normally he wouldn’t give a sincere damn about what the other houses’ heirs did, but in a situation quite like that one, where they were all forced inside a single place, he couldn’t help but observe and silently gloat about how sad some of them were- In his most honest and humble opinion, of course. Nevermind the youngest Haillenarte and the Fortemps’ bastard child, those two were the living and pointy-eared equivalent of pigeons cooing on a branch- Far away from extremely prying eyes and yet still there for all to see, Francel’s cheeks tinted in an everlasting (sweetly disgusting, Archombadin would bitterly add) rosy colour that was caused by the knight’s simple presence and excited talking. A maiden listening to a hero’s tale, simple and real. Something tugged at the scholar’s heart strings, but he couldn’t define it- Much to his dismay, it felt like envy. Envy for something he, a rich, all powerful heir couldn’t have. Life had a way of showing him things.

That sight alone was enough to make Archombadin grimace, his fingers almost gripping the chalice as he took a sip of the champagne, prying his eyes away from the disgusting scene. Whether his dismay was clearly written on his face or Lebrassoir was just used to reading his lord, the shorter Elezen frowned, turning to look towards were his ser was looking: it was easy to catch and easier to understand. Could something like that upset Archombadin so? And even more importantly: should he care? At the end of the day, he should at least try not to be so touched by these matters, the Dzemael never showed much of a care when it came to his own problems (‘That is not completely true’ a nagging voice added), so why should his heart bleed for his matters?

Perhaps because he knows he is part of what is upsetting his lord. Biting his lower lip and fighting against the most reluctant part of him, Lebrassoir discreetly looked around them, just to make sure no one was paying attention to them (who would ever care, after all?) before slowly reaching with his free hand for his lord’s hand, gingerly wrapping his index around the taller Elezen’s shortest finger. Lame, he snarled against himself, what would that accomplish? The weak hold of a man that doesn’t dare face his own thoughts.

And yet, his lord’s hand was over his almost immediately, a much tighter hold that (much to his surprise) did not speak of power over him. It was possessive, but not overbearing. 

Neither of them dared acknowledge it with their eyes, as if refusing to do that would mean no one else would notice. Childish, probably, but that wouldn’t change.

—

“Quimperain, allow me an obvious question-”  
“If you are about to inquire about the whereabouts of that fair lass you were talking with, I am fairly sure I saw her go off with Lord Emmanellain.”  
“That young rascal should keep his hands where they belong, in his bree- Nevermind, that was not what I meant to ask.”  
“Was it not?”  
“Not at all. Mine inquire concerned the youngest of the Dzemael. Do my eyes deceive me so (thus proving I am in need of a new monocle), or is the haughty Archombadin actually holding his manservant’s hand?”  
“T'would appear so.”  
“Ah! So much for the Dzemael keeping honour overall and spewing so much chocobo dung over the Fortemps'… Uhm… Offspring and the Haillenarte youngest! Love sure is blind- Or attraction or whatever it is that brings men with men.”  
“Shouldn’t you know, ser?”  
“Should I?”  
“If mine memory serves me right, I did aid you one night in understanding th-”  
“Quimperain, please, desist.”  
“I was under the impression you liked-”  
“I BEG YOU.”  
“You did that time, too.”  
“QUIMPERAIN.”


	6. The First Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archombadin has to come to terms with the fact that Lebrassoir is not there. Not anymore. And seeing as Starlight is an holiday to spend together, how is he supposed to feel?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is absolutely self indulgent because oh my god do I crave and wish for the Scholasticate quests to continue, for something to happen. I am not going to let go of these two poor souls, so I thought, why not write something a bit softer? (While still riddled with guilt?)

He couldn’t remember how that holiday came to be. Foggy memories of his mother telling him the tale started appearing in his head, but that was all there ever was to it: usually, it meant spending time with his family, forced to somehow own up to all he did during his time at the Scholasticate and having to deal with less than savoury relatives prodding him about it being time to find a possible wife- As if he had the time, or the interest, to embark in such a stupid search. As if he had a choice.

However, this year, Starlight meant something different, felt different- Due to one glaring and painful detail. Lebrassoir wouldn’t technically be present. For the first time, he wouldn’t have that constant presence at his side, no laughter, no half-hearted mumbles about his uncle being already at the fourth glass of red wine- No one to look at in times of desperation, when his mother would just go on and on about how her little Archie used to be an adorable little man.

It was with a heavy sigh that he acknowledged his situation, once more reminding himself that this was no one’s fault but his. That he could’ve made things different, but that in his egocentric blindness, he simply ruined it all. Perhaps that was why he was still in his room at the Scholasticate, delaying his inevitable visit back home by claiming he had some unfinished translation to take care of before the holidays. “Such hardworking young man!” was all the guard had to say about it. No questions asked. No one would dare question a Dzemael.

No, of course no one would.

All in all, he had been staring at an empty, blank page, trying to summon the words, the will to write. If he couldn’t find it in him to visit Lebrassoir, then he wanted to at least write him a letter, to show him that even in such a busy day, he was there to remember him- To miss him, as much as he was willing to admit. But what to write? He couldn’t fall and wallow in self-pity, couldn’t be as pathetic as to make it sound like it was all his fault- Even if it was. It was not the day to fling blame at anyone, he was there to… Cheer his former servant, perhaps.

But nothing came to him. Nothing at all. The quill was steadily stuck in his hand, a few centimetres away from the paper- A single drop of ink hanging there, ready to give shape to the young lord’s thoughts. How could one make sense of them though, when Archombadin himself didn’t know what to write? 

A knock broke him out of his silent reverie, forcing his attention away from the sheet of paper that was almost mocking him with its perfect whiteness. “Who is it?” His voice sounded foreign even to himself. How long had it been since he talked to the guard? Could that be him, ready to remind that his time was up? “Archombadin? It’s me, Theo…” The unsurprisingly weak voice barely made it through the door. “May I come in? Leigh, Crammevoix and-” “C'mon Theo, we don’t have all night!” The Midlander’s voice was considerably more impatient and loud- Another unsurprising detail.

The scholar stood up, groaning (how long had he been sitting there, hunched over the desk?), but before he could reach the door, it had already been opened for him- And his heart skipped a beat.  
Sure enough, there was the golden trio of the Scholasticate, all of them looking positively satisfied, Blaisie was hiding on the corner of his vision, but right in from of him, looking terribly worn out, was Lebrassoir. 

“Bet ya didn’t expect this, eh?” Leigh’s boisterous comment was almost completely lost to the noble, whose eyes never looked any wider. “We… Thought you’d appreciate some company for the holidays. We just about begged the high priestess to let… Well, to let him visit you. Just for Starlight.” It would be excessive to mention that they might have had a bit of a hand lent to them by Blaisie’s brother, and that even other professors had chimed in, agreeing with the decision.

“So! I am sure you two have a lot to talk about, mh? Especially now that there are no bars or anything between-” Blaisie all but slapped Crammevoix’s arm, making him whine in a rather embarrassing way. “Y-Yeah, we… We will be on our way! Happy holidays!” To say that they scrambled away would be an understatement- Part of Archombadin felt bad about not having even managed to thank them, but he was simply frozen into place. Limbs and mouth, completely stuck. Why did he feel like this? Shouldn’t he be overjoyed, to say the least? Could it be the guilt, once more gnawing at him and stopping any reaction?

“…Please. No need to welcome me back.” Lebrassoir voice felt alien, as if he had never heard it before. But it was his. The sarcastic hint, the small shrug of his shoulder. It was him. “…You should come in.” Not an order. A suggestion. He wasn’t there to order anyone- Not anymore. And as weird as it felt to have his friend there, he had to snap out of it and treat him properly- He couldn’t waste a chance like that.

In the meantime, Lebrassoir had sat down on what used to be his bed, the sight alone making Archombadin’s breath be caught once more. “… You didn’t touch anything, I see.” Of course he hadn't, because everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. “…Those people from the… Guard didn’t even give you a coat?” His tone was stern, but it was clear that it was an attempt to change subject- A poor one maybe, but efficient nonetheless. “It wasn’t in their interest to keep a criminal warm, I suppose.” The word ‘criminal’ made the Dzemael shiver- Criminal! Lebrassoir! Fat joke. 

Instead of voicing his inner (and angry) turmoil, the scholar walked closer to the bed, gathering up the blanket for the sake of wrapping it around Lebrassoir, making sure not to touch more than absolutely needed. “…Thank you, s-” “No.” He was no one’s 'sir’. “…Thank you, Archombadin.”

That felt surprisingly nice. “Welcome home, Lebrassoir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the last piece I have concerning them, but who knows, I might write more. I mean, if no one else will, I HAVE TO TAKE MATTERS IN MY OWN HANDS.


	7. Tempting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a servant, there's a number of duties Lebrassoir has to attend to. Some considerably less harrowing then others and some are just plain suffering. 
> 
> In more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was 100% inspired by the wip of a drawing my fellow shipper  goldbasar did. Can't wait to see that one finished <3 
> 
> This one's a bit more light than the other things, I guess, but still plenty of brainiac Lebrassoir ahead and. Stuff. I apologize if this is not perfect or anything, but I have a bit of writer's block, so anything that comes to mind and that I have just a bit of energy to write, GETS WRITTEN.

The work of a manservant was never-ending and always growing. Lebrassoir was certain, absolutely certain that that was an unwritten rule, ushered and whispered amongst the others who lived in the same condition as he did, but he also had no doubts that all of the others didn’t have a problem like he did: that problem went by the name of Archombadin de Dzemael and it was his lord. His lord, his friend, maybe, but he still found that to be a bit of a stretch- One should call things exactly as they are, not sugar coating them for the sake of feeling about one’s position in life.

Once a servant, always a servant. It had been ingrained in his mind ever since he was a young boy, nothing more than a child that had to follow around another child- But not one like him. It was something that had been cleared almost immediately, as soon as the young Elezen could understand: you are not like Archombadin. To his eyes, he could’ve looked like any other boy his age, but as the years went by, the rift between them only grew (or so he felt, at least), because the more he could understand, the more he could see, the more he could suffer. And it pained him, pained him so much to see just how different they truly were, hoe, consciously or not, his lord made it clear that he was at least one, if not two steps above him- Not in smarts, but in hierarchy. An invisible force that pulled them apart, the mysterious hand that kept people like Lebrassoir in misery.

In that sea of moping, however, the servant had to admit that not everything caused resentment within him, because despite his haughty and almost insufferable behaviour at times, Archombadin had some qualities that could almost be considered redeeming: not only was he an exceptionally bright student, he had the strong headedness of a true leader and beneath it all, where no one (but him) could see, laid a pretty normal young lord, one that wished for his family’s approval, for his father’s happiness. It was a very well-kept secret, one that dare pour out only beyond closed doors, behind the wooden frame of apparent safety that could be offered by their room.

Because, as a manservant, he was always with his lord. And that ‘always’ took a definitely particular turn when it came to even sitting there while Archombadin bathed: it was nothing new, it was something they had always did, ever since they were kids, but as one grew and as one’s interests started growing as well, it became…Difficult. For even if Lebrassoir prided himself in being a faithful Halonic young man, there were certain things that couldn’t escape his eyes. The young Dzemael was lounging inside the bathtub, for starters, with only his shoulders and clavicles showing- But that expanse of skin was enough to make the shorter Elezen bite his lower lip, hoping that the act of pouring Archombadin another glass of wine would be excuse enough to explain the nervous biting that was threatening to split his skin.

“Now, now, Lebrassoir, there is no need to be so tense. I don’t think you’ve ever made a single drop of wine fall out.” To say that the lord sounded amused would be a dire understatement, there was an evidently playful glint in his eyes, one that was rare enough to leave the other scholar momentarily speechless. “I strive to be perfect, my lord.” It was a weak excuse, but the only one his admittedly confused mind could muster up: why was it so difficult to think? His eyes desperately darted around the room, trying to find something to focus on, something that wasn’t so inherently sinful as observing the droplets of water lazily roll down another man’s shoulders. Because that was definitely a sin. A pretty sizeable one.

Luckily enough, Archombadin seemed engrossed enough in observing the red wine inside his glass, swirling it around carefully before taking a sip, barely enough to taste it, but enough to judge it. “Mh. Quite fruity.” It was a pointless musing, mostly to assure himself of what he was saying, because, evidently, Lebrassoir was distracted- Which, in itself, was pretty surprising. “Say, my friend.” Upon being directly interpellated, the Elezen turned his head again, prying his eyes away from the tiles of the floor only for them to end up stuck onto his lord’s own- And, much to his dread, just in time to see him sit up straighter into the tub. Without realizing it, he had sucked in some air, something that sounded like a very light gasp- So the breath had ended up being stuck in his throat as he forced himself to keep his gaze steadily at eye level. However, despite his best efforts, he could feel his face growing steadily warmer and it wasn’t because of the temperature in the room, nor because he was still completely clothed. Because he was used to those things. What he apparently wasn’t used to, was his lord being purposefully teasing, what with most of his torso now sticking out of the water and the foam covering only his lower half. A little bit of mercy for the poor servant. “You seem awfully interested in the floor. Did something catch your eye?” 

So much caught his eye. How his fingers were gently gripping the chalice. The multitude of rivulets coursing down his lord’s chest, idly following an invisible path. The way his lips closed around the glass’ very edge as he took another sip of the wine. The slow bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, something that automatically pushed Lebrassoir to notice just how enticing that simple gesture was. “…No, sir. I was simply thinking.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, as he was, indeed, thinking. Mainly about how he wanted to take off his gloves to touch Archombadin’s neck, just to feel the warmth of his skin, the far off beating of his heart and maybe, just maybe, lean close enough to steal his breath away before-

Where.   
Was.  
His.  
Mind.  
Going.

“Thinking, is that so? You never stop thinking, Lebrassoir. Aren’t you tired?” Now that definitely sounded like a taunt, especially coupled with the evident scoff that appeared effortlessly onto his lord’s face, a mixture of pity and honest-to-Halone amusement. “It is my job, sir.” It was the almost immediate reply, as to not allow himself to linger too much onto just how terribly tempting that sentence had sounded: if he stopped thinking, he wouldn’t be holding that bottle anymore. No, he would have a fistful of white hair in his hands and his sleeves would be covered in foam and water. And he simply couldn’t have that happen, not after resisting for so long. “How quaint. I was sure your job was taking care of me.”

Another jab. Lebrassoir was almost left reeling after this one, his eyes wide to the point that his monocle would’ve slipped off his nose if it hadn’t been for the clasp keeping it in place. How could he even answer to that without dipping into the most sarcastic part of himself, how could he keep a steady hold onto his own teasing? Because a lord could tease freely, but that a servant would tease his superior was simply unheard of- Well, at least, he’d never heard of it ending well. The occasion, albeit tempting, had to be left as it was: a temptation and not something to be acted upon. Still, he couldn’t simply stay silent, lest Archombadin assume he was being ignored (something that wouldn’t sit well with him at all). “That as well, my lord. But it is with my thinking that I take care of you, is it not?” Just to emphasize how sure he was of his words, Lebrassoir straightened his back, a surprisingly natural smile appearing on his lips as he did so: he was proud of how reliable he was, after all.

That seemed to do the trick, as the Dzemael simply arched an eyebrow and went back to his careful savouring, ultimately not paying attention to the way the scholar’s shoulders slumped back down as soon as direct attention wasn’t directed towards him. It had been a trial, to put it lightly: there was an uncomfortable tight feeling in his chest, at the pit of his stomach and a restlessness in his hands. He was certain that had he not been holding onto that bottle, he would’ve been wringing his hands, twisting and pulling at the leather of his gloves just to have them busy. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, or so his teachers had always told him, and he couldn’t agree more with them, especially given the current situation.

It was then that a devious, stinging thought made its way inside his head: why was he holding back to begin with? They were closed (locked, even) inside a room, if anything were to happen there, no one would know- No one but them. Lest they were the one to tell, no one would be the wiser, the very safety of the bathroom ensure that beyond any reasonable doubt. Lebrassoir frowned at his mind’s inner working, vehemently refusing to do anything about the completely naked man in front of him that had repeatedly teased him, albeit subtly, and suffering because of it. Not only were his hands almost shaking while gripping nervously onto the bottle, but his stomach felt upset, his face warm and- The unmistakable, uncomfortable feeling in his loins. He could write that off as him being only human, there was nothing inherently unacceptable about being physically attracted to someone else (he allowed himself to ignore the fact that it was a man he was attracted to and that he had no idea how well that would sit with the Orthodox church), as long as he didn’t act upon it, so he was still safe from any sort of judgement.

But whose judgement, if no one knew? His thinking was growing feverish by the minute, no matter how much he boasted about that being his main concern at all times- It was becoming increasingly hard to think straight. Because no one would know. Not if neither of them said anything about it. So where was the harm? Acting would finally quell the unfathomable need he felt and it would finally silence the screaming in his mind, the desperate howling for something more than some ever-so-casual touching of hands while passing a book to the other. With that certainty to hold onto (no matter how shaky), Lebrassoir carefully placed the bottle down on the floor, far away enough for him not to inadvertently knock it down by moving. 

He felt lucky when he noticed how the action had somehow caught Archombadin’s attention, as that saved him the trouble of actively turning the lord’s head towards him: as he was already looking into his general direction, Lebrassoir found it hilariously easy to simply grab the Dzemael’s face none too gently (and yet feeling nothing under his fingertips, due to his gloves, which were still on as he had no time to even think about getting them off) in order to push his lips against the other’s. 

A kiss never killed anyone, a kiss never sent someone onto the brink of desperation, not as much as not kissing had. It felt freeing, it numbed his mind, silenced the screaming and allowed the scholar to slip into the comfort of not knowing, of not thinking, the sole thing he had to worry about was feeling. Feeling how Archombadin had stiffened at first, evidently surprised, feeling how he ultimately relaxed and even let go of the glass, which had slipped into the tub, luckily void of any wine, feeling how a completely drenched hand had ended up inside his hair, efficiently dampening it. 

It was far from perfect. But who was there to judge?


End file.
